


Let it Not be Said that John Didn't Appreciate Woman's Clothing

by tardis-eneth-nin (flippinsirens)



Series: Tumblr Writing Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flippinsirens/pseuds/tardis-eneth-nin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon asked: May I ask for Johnlock, with crossdressing? Sherlock has to crossdress for an investigation or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let it Not be Said that John Didn't Appreciate Woman's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> Un Beta'd and written at 3AM, any and all mistakes are mine; if you find any, let me know in the comments section. Enjoy!

It was supposed to be a normal case. Well, as normal as any case they had. It was also supposed to be a relatively easy and brief case, but, well, that didn’t happen either.

Find out who stole those diamonds, find out who wants to kill who, and find the man, or woman, behind everything, because everything lined up too perfectly for there not to be someone running it like it was a play. Actors just playing their parts until the curtains closed.

Turns out, it hadn’t been like that at all. The lead that they had was annoying and served no purpose. Sherlock had muttered something about throwing him in the Thames, but, well, that was a bit not good. The Diamond Thief had been murdered by the same person who tried to murder the Diamond Thief’s Mother, who just happened to very close friends with the woman who had her diamonds stolen. The one behind everything, turns out, was, though it should have been expected, really, the Woman Who Had Her Diamond Stolen. Money, scandal, acknowledgement, starved of affection and all those things that Sherlock stopped paying attention to. In the end, it had been deemed ‘dull’ and a ‘waste of time’. 

Mostly. At one point, and John still wasn’t quite sure why this had to happen, Sherlock had donned on a criminally short, silky black dress that hugged his angular body, slipped on pale nude nylons and a pair of black, shiny heels that looked rather fetching with the dress (but, obviously it had worked because the man had confessed everything while salivating at the sight of Sherlock so John supposed it wasn’t a completely mad idea). With a touch of makeup and a wig that blended in with Sherlock's natural hair so flawlessly John had almost believed the other was capable of growing it out in a miraculous amount of time.

Needless to say that when Sherlock stepped out of his bathroom looking like a very slender and angular woman, John was astonished.  Completely flabbergasted and he was pretty sure he had looked like a fish, gaping for water because air was just not cutting it, unfortunately.

Could you blame him? He was a man, after all, and Sherlock was…gorgeous. For a bloke. Wearing a dress. A bloke that John would have sex with on occasion because he had finally gotten over his staunchly stubborn heterosexuality—he could at least admit that he was maybe bisexual because, really, the only male he was attracted to was Sherlock so did that really count?—and whom he would curl on the couch with, and run his fingers through the mess of curls, and do all other sorts of things that couples do.

It had just been just… oddly arousing to see him in that dress. John remembered that he had to pardon himself to wash his hands after a moment too long of blatant staring. And of course, Sherlock teased him for it all night mercilessly and had almost made him come on the ride home whenever he had purposefully stretched out his legs in front of himself, showing off the long expanse of pale skin running over smooth, lean muscle, or if Sherlock hitched up the dress and ran his fingers over and under his thighs, sighing out as he massaged them. 

But then they had entered the flat and, although Sherlock was three inches higher than normal—something that John hated—John had still managed to pin him forcefully against the wall, letting the door fall shut behind them. They had ravaged each other’s mouths, fighting for dominance but they had both known who would win that night. 

John had pulled away first and had turned to go up the stairs. His hurried footfalls on the wood resounded in the quiet but they couldn’t be bothered with the risk of waking up Mrs Hudson. Not when John had images of undressing Sherlock slowly, feeling how the silk of the dress felt against his palms and fingertips, heated by Sherlock's body. Not when all John had thought about was burying himself inside of Sherlock while he still had on his heels and the nylons were bunched and stretching at his ankles, threatening to rip.

That night, they had fucked until they, almost quite literally, could not move a single, voluntary muscle. Both had been extremely sore in the morning, John’s legs and arms had felt like lead and jello all at the same time; Sherlock’s arse and thighs had ached for about a week.

Now, however, almost a month after that case, as Sherlock walked into the living room wearing a blood red dress that barely reached an inch below his flaccid cock, black nylons that had straps connected to the bottom of the dress via silver buckles, and leather boots that reached to his knees, John couldn’t deny that seeing the tall, pale man in such things was seriously ruining him for the rest of his life.

John swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing and his pupils getting so much larger and darker. 

Sherlock walked forward and slid into John’s lap from where he was sat on the couch, the material of the dress tightening over his torso and chest, the bottom pulling up even more to reveal his semi-erect dick and stretching out the nylons even more. He leaned forward just a bit as John’s hands came to rest on his hips, fingers rubbing small circles into the material as he tried to control his breathing.

A small flick of Sherlock’s tongue against his earlobe before heated breath ghosted over the sensitive flesh, “I would like for you to tear me out of these as soon as possible, John.” A nip and a catch of John’s breath, a spike in his pulse. Sherlock smirked a wicked smile as he pulled back just enough to look into John’s darkened eyes. “But, first, I want to have some fun.”


End file.
